


Afflicted

by Glass_Onion



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BAMF!Coulson, F/M, Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:35:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glass_Onion/pseuds/Glass_Onion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Coulson 'dies', he notices Stark aiding his loved ones anonymously. He assumes that Stark is saying 'I know you're alive, so stop pretending, it's getting old'. After he's reinstated, however, Stark is as surprised as everyone else that he's not dead.</p>
<p>And then Pepper gets kidnapped.</p>
<p>Or, basically, Four Times Tony Helped Coulson, and How Coulson Repaid Him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There aren't enough Phil Coulson & Tony Stark fics out there, so I thought I'd try my hand at it. This was originally gonna be a oneshot, but it got very long very fast.
> 
> This being the first chapter and a story told more from Coulson's perspective, there's not a lot of Tony (as he's being, y'know, sneaky), but he'll be around more eventually.

Coulson didn't actually mind the quiet life. It took some getting used to, of course, but after a certain point, it was almost enjoyable. He was relocated, given a new name, given a new ID, social security number, history. He was also given the background that allowed him any job he wanted.

  
(Not that he needed one, of course, as his pension from SHIELD was decidedly generous.)

  
He wasn't allowed to contact her directly. That was one of the only problems with this new life. But he was allowed to attend her recitals, speak to her anonymously on dating websites, and keep an eye on her.

  
It was under his assumed name of Clark Rogers (Fury's idea of a joke, probably) that he spoke to her online. They had been corresponding for a few weeks, and he couldn't help but enjoy re-learning things about her. They were close enough that their conversations consisted of more than simple pleasantries, so it wasn't odd when she said,

  
_I got a present today!_

  
_Oh? What for?_

  
_I have no idea. It was mailed to me directly from the website._

  
_What is it?_

  
_A cello! You know I play it?_ He'd seen her perform over ten times, now.

  
_I think I remember you mentioning that._

  
_It's amazing. An Aubert Lutherie Vuillaume Model! I have no idea where it came from. They're so expensive! I keep expecting someone to come and say the delivery guy made a mistake._

  
_Someone just sent you a cello? How much is it worth?_ He realized as soon as he hit 'enter' that that was a crude question. But he had a distant sense of suspicion, and it was sometimes hard to write casually after working with SHIELD for so long.

  
_Way more than I make in, like, four months. Last I checked, it was almost 10,000. I looked at it occasionally, y'know, just as an 'if only' kinda thing, but then it just showed up. I think it might have been part of a promotion. Isn't that insane!?_

  
Insane. Yeah. Definitely. He frowned, eyes flickering to his cell phone. Was this Stark saying that he knew Coulson was alive?

  
He'd have to tell Fury the engineer had his suspicions.

 

* * *

 

Phil Coulson's parents were sworn to secrecy when it came to his living. They were almost not told, but Fury made an allowance due to the nature of Coulson's 'death'. Even so, Coulson rarely spoke to them.

  
He didn't even know they were in debt until his mother said,

  
“And the bank had an error and our mortgage was _completely_ paid. Isn't that great, Philip? We actually got money _back_.” His ears perked. Banks rarely made mistakes that resulted in their clientèle benefiting.

  
“How much money?” He questioned.

  
“Oh, Philip,” she tutted. “Do you need some? You know you only have to ask.”

  
“No,” he replied calmly, because he got a check every month with more money than he could spend. “I'm just curious.”

  
“Five thousand. Isn't that just amazing? Your father almost had a heart attack.” A small pause. “Not that he did, of course, dear.” Coulson's father had a history of a bad heart.

  
“That's great,” he said cheerily, even as his mind raced through possibilities. According to Fury, Stark exhibited no signs of being aware of his living. Had he figured it out, Fury maintained, he would have ranted or bragged. There was no knowledge of his purchasing the cello, but then it was all done anonymously. Even the website had no record of it beyond a basic receipt.

  
Which was ridiculous.

  
Which spelled Stark's involvement.

  
But there was no evidence.

  
“That's really great.”

 

* * *

 

“He's in the hospital, dear. Do you think you'd be able to visit? The doctors...” A small pause. “I don't think he has much time left, Philip.” Coulson frowned at his paperwork. He'd been back at SHIELD for three months (civilian life just didn't suit him, and even if he had to be Clark Rogers while he did it, he was born for government work), and he was still acclimating.

  
(His chest ached in the winter.)

  
“How much longer?” He asked, wondering whether he could finish this packet before leaving. Because, low profile or not, he was going.

  
“They say a few more days.” He heard a small, concealed sniffle. “He just needs a new heart so _badly_ , Philip.” If his influence at SHIELD mattered that much, Coulson would have gotten his father the new valves he so desperately needed. But he was dead and it didn't and even his paychecks weren't enough for a procedure like this.

  
“I'll be there tonight,” he promised.

  
“Thank you, Philip,” she murmured. “I'm looking forward to seeing you again.” He hadn't seen her since the funeral. Since his funeral. She'd gone to his hospital room after crying at his grave.

  
(Sometimes he hated SHIELD.)

 

\-----

 

“Philip!” She crooned, embracing him with all the strength of a seventy-three-year-old woman who's already mourning.

  
“Clark,” he told her half-heartedly, because it really was nice being called by his real name. She nodded shakily as she retracted.

  
“Yes, of course, dear.” Just as passive. He glanced down the hallway.

  
“How is he doing?” His voice didn't shake. It hadn't shaken when he was threatening a god, so it shouldn't shake while he's standing in a hospital. It shouldn't be harder to keep it calm now. She shook her head slightly.

  
“Not well. I'm glad you came.” As they walked down the hallway, there came a bustling, a low murmur of excitement that made Coulson uneasy. He frowned at his mother, who seemed equally unnerved.

  
“Mrs. Coulson?” She nodded, grasping onto Coulson's hand for support as a doctor approached.

  
“Is something the matter?” She demanded. The cardiologist smiled as she glanced down at her clipboard. The expression on her face was nothing short of gleeful.

  
“Mrs. Coulson, I've got some very good news.” Coulson's brows furrowed.

  
“ 'Good.' ” The woman raised an eyebrow.

  
“I'm sorry, are you family?” His mother rolled her eyes.

  
“Of course he is, he's-”

  
“A family friend,” Coulson interjected smoothly. “Clark Rogers. What's happened?” The doctor still seemed unsure, but nodded anyway.

  
“We've just received a phone call. Your husband's surgery is going to be paid for in full, Mrs. Coulson. The expenses are completely covered, including the recovery period. We've got a few forms for you both to sign, and then I'd like to get him into surgery as soon as possible.” Coulson felt more than saw his mother crumple. The tight grip on his hand turned lax, and he scooped his hand beneath her armpit to support her.

  
“Mrs. Coulson.” He said delicately, resisting the urge to just call her 'Mom' or 'Mother' or even 'Mommy', because, _yes_ , this was good news.

  
“He- the surgery is paid for?” She asked disbelievingly. The doctor nodded.

  
“Yes. But your husband needs to get into surgery as soon as we can get him in. We haven't got much time, Mrs. Coulson, so if you'd please follow me, you both can fill out the necessary paperwork and we can get him ready.” Coulson followed his mother down the hall, but just as they reached his father's room, the doctor frowned at him. “Family only, sir.”

  
His mother looked as if she were about to rave, so he smiled placidly.

  
“It's alright,” he lied. “I'll read a magazine. Just sign those papers, Mrs. Coulson.”

 

\-----

 

A day and a half later, his father was in surgery. Coulson and his mother sat in the waiting room, knees bouncing up and down in nervous sync.

  
(Coulson saw no reason to hide his unease behind a veneer of calmness, because his mother had seen him cry over scraping a knee; there was just no purpose in behaving as if he weren't worried sick.)

  
His phone vibrated against his chest.

  
“Can it wait?” She asked, almost nervously. He wanted to say, 'Yes, absolutely.'

  
“I'll be just a minute,” he assured her, standing.

  
(It was his SHIELD phone, and SHIELD calls can't wait.)

  
“Coulson.”

  
“Rogers,” Coulson reminded Fury tiredly (it would be amusedly if he weren't so exhausted). “What is it?”

  
“An amount of $174,640 was removed from Stark's personal savings account yesterday afternoon.” Coulson nodded a little.

  
“Okay.”

  
“The 'anonymous benefactor' behind your father's surgery paid that exact amount at that exact time. I still see no reason to believe Stark suspects you're alive.” Coulson didn't really have to choke back the laugh, but he still felt it bubble in his chest.

  
“Other than the thousands spent to aid those close to me.”

  
“Yeah,” Fury agreed. “Other than that.” Coulson sighed heavily.

  
“What does this mean, sir?” A long, pregnant pause.

  
“Would you be interested in returning to the Avengers Initiative, Agent Rogers?”

  
“Coulson,” he replied.

  
It was answer enough.

 

* * *

 

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Agent Coulson. How do you feel?” Coulson smiled tightly at the director.

  
“As if I'm about to hear a lot of yelling.” Fury inclined his head slightly.

  
“I wouldn't write off the possibility.”

  
“Are they all present?”

  
“Except Stark. He always prefers making a fashionably late entrance.” Coulson's lip twitched. He was still unsure how the engineer would respond to his return. He obviously knew he was alive (he'd been sending him messages that he knew for a year, now), but how would he react in person?

  
“Agent Coulson.” He turned, and his half-smile grew. Maria Hill pursed her lips. “It's a pleasure to see you again, sir.” And there it was. A year and a half after being informed he was dead, and that was her shocked response.

  
(He was really proud of his SHIELD agents, sometimes.)

 

\-----

 

“Sir-?” Coulson had never seen Barton look so blindsided (and happy). And he had seen him the night after the agent had met Romanoff. A brief, unprofessional hug. “I- I'm glad you're okay.”

  
“I'm glad you're safe,” The handler told him honestly. “And I'm extraordinarily impressed with what I've seen on basic cable news stations.” Barton smiled, pleasant and open, and Coulson felt a little happier than he had in 19 months.

  
“I've had some help making headlines,” the archer told him unnecessarily, and Coulson was forced to hug every Avenger present.

  
(That is, every Avenger except Stark.)

  
After Thor cracked a few ribs that hadn't wanted to be cracked, Coulson regained his personal space and listened politely while Fury explained himself. There was a lot of anger on the side of the Avengers, but none of it was directed at him. In fact, whenever a distrustful gaze flew from Fury to him, it turned instantly fond.

  
(Except for Bruce Banner, who seemed genuinely confused as to who he was and why there was such excitement over his return.)

  
“Stark is on his way,” a small intercom device informed the room. The meeting had (more or less) ended. Everyone except Fury and Coulson had left, whether to buy a Congratulations-your-death-was-just-a-ruse-in-order-to-promote-unity cake (Barton and, by association, Romanoff) or attend to a small matter on ground (Thor and Rogers) or to just get a cup of tea (Banner, of course).

  
Coulson was bent over a screen when the consultant entered.

  
“Where is everybody? I'm not _that_ late, am I?” Stark glanced at his phone. “Oh, wait, was this meeting set for ten or noon? I guess, either way, I'm late. Can I get a summary fast, because I _do_ have plans.”

  
“We were familiarizing the group with your newest handler.” Fury answered, and Stark snorted.

  
“Geez, another one? We don't need a-” Coulson figured the hitch was indicative of his being seen. He glanced up slightly, casting a small smile at the newcomer.

  
He expected something like, 'About time' or, 'Was wondering when you were gonna show up' or even, 'Wow, Casper, like the new suit.' But there was no joke or yes-I-knew-all-along comment.

  
There was just a genius gaping in the doorway.

  
Fury raised an eyebrow.

  
“Either you guys really took off on my Life Model Decoy idea, or you're a fucking asshole.” Fury's eyebrow lowered.

  
“Agent Coulson will be returning to assist with the Avengers Initiative, Mr. Stark.” Stark shook his head.

  
“Impossible, seeing as how he's dead. Still waiting for an explanation, Commander Cook.”

  
“You would have received a thoroughly satisfying one had you arrived on time. Agent Coulson, could you please escort Mr. Stark out?” Coulson raised an eyebrow, but Fury remained resolute. When Stark didn't offer up even a token insult, the agent nodded slightly.

  
“Shall we, Mr. Stark?”

  
“Only if you promise not to posses me.” Stark replied stiffly, stalking out of the room with Coulson in tow.

 

\-----

 

“So, you wanna explain why you're not in that coffin I saw get lowered into the ground? I'm working off of the assumption that this isn't a 'Dawn of the Dead' situation, by the way.”

  
“Fury believed I was dead at first,” Coulson answered genially, enjoying the company of a familiar face (even if it were a familiar face that had always managed to annoy him). “After the medics brought me back, he'd already spoken to you all and given the news. You remember it was a busy day.”

  
“Vaguely.” Stark allowed, holding the door open as Coulson passed by.

  
“When he was told I survived, he kept everything on paper and those that knew were required to keep the information confidential. My death encouraged you all to work together, and he was concerned that the truth would dissolve already tenuous bonds. I was given a new identity, a generous pension, and after a few months of PT moved to Iowa.” Stark blinked.

  
“Why Iowa?” Coulson shrugged.

  
“Why not?”

  
“Alright, so why the reappearance? Fury decide we could finally handle the truth?” Coulson paused, unsure how to handle this particular aspect.

  
(Because if Stark hadn't known, that couldn't be the reason.)

  
“We both agreed it was the right decision to reinstate me.” Stark nodded, removing his keys from his pocket.

  
“So are you gonna move in?”

  
“Move in.” Coulson repeated.

  
“To the tower,” he elaborated. “I've got a bed-and-breakfast thing going on there. All the Avengers have a floor. I can set one up for you in no time.”

  
“I'll discuss it with Fury.” Stark sent him an amused smirk.

  
“I see you haven't upgraded to big-boy pants during your vacation. Alright, lemme know what Daddy says.” Coulson leveled him with a heavy look, and the engineer raised his hands innocently. “You haven't got your taser back yet, have you?”

  
“Last week actually,” Coulson answered good-naturedly. Stark let out a low chuckle.

  
“Alright, I'll be good. Keep me informed. I've gotta go break into SHIELD's servers and see what other dirty secrets you guys are keeping.”

  
“Anything you'd be interested in is hardcopy,” Coulson told him, already turning to re-enter the building. “Have a nice day, Mr. Stark.”


	2. Chapter 2

Coulson had been living with the Avengers for four months. It actually made it easier. No running from HQ to the tower with paperwork every other day, consistent access to the lab thanks to Ms. Potts, and a diversity of food even his SHIELD pension couldn't have afforded.

It was also nice to be on familiar ground.

“You're not in danger, are you? Your mother and I don't want to go to another funeral, Philip.” Coulson nodded, even though his father couldn't technically see him.

(He'd never mastered the SI smartphone, and was probably still using the old rotary telephone in the kitchen.)

“I don't intend on making you do that.”

“That doesn't answer my question,” he grumbled, but he'd always been a patriotic, old-fashioned type of man, so he didn't ask again. Coulson had phoned just to check in (he liked to call every month, now, because he was living in invasion-prone New York), but it wasn't his mother who had answered. “What about Barton? He there?”

“Yes, he's in the floor above mine.” Coulson told him. “How do you feel?” The subject change didn't seem to faze the man.

(He was, after all, related to Coulson.)

“Like a twenty-year old. They say those valves came from a pig, but I don't buy it. I think they stole them from some olympic athlete who got bronze.”

“We'll try to get them from a gold-winner next time,” Coulson assured him with a small smile.

“Did you find out who paid?” Coulson paused.

“I have an idea, yes.”

“Tell them I'm grateful, Philip. I walked around the block yesterday, just because I could.”

“I'll find a way to pass the message along, dad.” Coulson glanced at his watch. “I have to go. Meeting.”

“Save the world, son.”

(Again.)

 

* * *

 

 

“Have I ever mentioned how incredibly boring these meetings are? Because they're really, really boring.”

“I think you might have mentioned it once or twice.” Coulson told him coolly. Stark passed him an amused smirk, pushing open the door with a little more force than necessary.

“Just making sure you know my stance. I'd hate for you to have any doubt.”

“We have to know we're on the same page,” Steve explained reasonably.

“We live at the same address. Fury can make a house call if he wants to bond with us.”

“This isn't bonding,” Fury entered the room with a purposeful stride. “And this isn't keeping us all on the same page, either. You've got a mission.” Barton visibly perked. Like Stark, the constant meetings had been boring him.

“What's up?” He asked, as Stark took a seat beside Banner.

“A minor disturbance in Vancouver got a helluva lot less minor after an unidentified-as-of-yet figure pulled a power play and ended up destroying half of the city.”

“Any information on the target?” Steve asked, eyes focused as a screen showed footage of the damage.

“So far? We've got nothing but that he's moving South.”

“South?” Tony repeated, eyes flickering towards Coulson. Before the agent could discern the odd focus paid to him, the consultant was watching Fury.

“Yes.” Fury repeated with an impatient note. “ _South_. I'll patch through whatever information comes in, but you're heading there now.”

“I'll get my suit.” Stark was already on his feet and out before Steve could even utter his,

“Understood.” The team soon followed their landlord, wondering at the out-of-character behavior.

“Any ideas?” Fury asked. Specifications weren't necessary.

“Not yet.” The director nodded, tapping his head down to glance at the tablet he was using to stay up-to-date.

“Work on that.”

 

\-----

 

“Did it just shoot fireballs out of its mouth? Are we fighting a dragon?”

“Focus, Stark.”

“I am focusing. Excuse me if I'm a little surprised. I just thought they were mythical, is all.”

“He is but a man! Dragons are far more ferocious.”

There was a lull in which Coulson sipped at his coffee.

“...Did Thor just say dragons exist?”

“You can geek out later, Stark. Cover my six.”

“I'll cover all of you, Barton. And it's not geeking out- it's expressing interest in the- okay, he shoots acid, too- culture of a fellow teammate.”

“You didn't express interest when it was magic.”

“Because magic isn't real. Unlike dragons. Which are, apparently, as real as- I can't believe you made that- our favorite god.”

“I never miss, Stark. And you get beaten up by magic every other week.”

“Oh, please, those are _tricks_ -”

“Illusions?”

“-and I won't-”

“Stark, Barton, quiet.” Coulson spoke into his own communicator, and the line was instantly silent. A little flattering, really.

His cell phone vibrated, and he placed his coffee cup deliberately on the table beside him. It was his personal cell phone. He might have ignored the text on another day, but this was a special set of circumstances.

_They're evacuating us._

_Avoid Lloyd District,_ he advised. _Stay off Banfield Expressway if at all possible._

 _Not possible,_ she replied, and he could practically see the furrow of her brow. _The latest we've got say it's still in Portsmith, though, so don't worry._ He frowned slightly, fingers tapping quickly across the screen.

In his ear, Rogers gave another order to help civilians.

_It's not. It's moving through Lloyd now. Where are you?_

When there was no reply after five minutes,

(Five minutes wherein all he heard were desperate orders and grunts and shouts and the occasional hiss of pain)

he put away the phone and stood a little straighter.

 

\-----

 

Thirty minutes later, the battle was still raging. Half of Portland was blazing, and the other half suffocated by ash and debris. The creature- probably a mutant not in control of his actions- showed no signs of slowing or deterioration.

“Status?” He asked, peering at the shaky footage that SHIELD cameras were able to take. Everything was distant and hazy- it was far too dangerous still to move in for a closer look.

(He wanted to be down there.)

“Not good, sir,” Rogers replied past a grunt. “We're getting nowhere. We're giving what we've got, but it's showing no signs of-” A crackle of static, another grunt, then, “No change, sir.”

“And still no wings,” Stark added sourly, and Coulson saw him swoop down again to shoot. It was the only tactic that seemed to have any effect- the creature consistently staggered back. Barton's exploding arrows got a similar result, but neither proved considerably damaging. At this point, they were controlling fires more than fighting.

“Puff the annoying monster-” Barton sang through a discordant maze of off-key notes and a fuzzy feed. “We need orders here, sir. This guy isn't tiring, and I'm running out.”

“I've got a thought, but it needs serious room to breath,” Stark announced.

“What's the plan?” Fury demanded. Though he monitored the feed, the director only joined the conversation when there was something of value said or a direct order required.

“Brilliant,” Stark answered flippantly, and Coulson saw the other Avengers were already retreating strategically to give their teammate space. “But it's gonna make a big boom. Jarvis has been monitoring that energy it's been putting off, and I think I've got a little something that might combine explosively- either it'll kill it, or it'll douse whatever is making it set stuff on fire. So win-win.”

“What's the blast radius?”

“More than a few inches. Get as far as you can. I'm already charging this baby.”

“Is this something you've done before?” Romanov demanded, and her locater put her just past Davis street. The small red dot continued to move quickly.

“It wouldn't be so dramatic if it were.” Stark answered. Moments later, static poured into the communicators. Barton's complaints and Rogers' concerns could vaguely be heard past the whirring of some machinery, and the incessant humming of reigned-in power.

Then, in the space of five seconds, three things happened.

A single word from Stark (“Shit”).

The sound of an explosion, and the surprised scream of a creature not used to pain.

And the small yellow dot zoomed over Banfield.

“No good-!” Stark shouted past the noise. “Couldn't finish.”

“Couldn't finish?” Fury roared. “What happened?”

“Civilian,” Stark replied breathlessly. “It would've killed her. Lemme drop her off and I'll go back.”

“'Go back'?” Fury repeated angrily, and the footage Coulson was staring at went crazy. Even as the dust settled, everything shook and the screen grew snowy. “There's no _going back_ , Stark, you shook the damn hive and ran. That thing is going berserk!”

“Yeah, and I'll be back to put it down in a second,” Stark stubbornly insisted, and the dot still wasn't slowing.

“You can drop the civilian,” Coulson instructed. “You're where most of the evacuees are at this point anyway.”

“A little further,” Stark denied, and the dot was nearly in Brightwood when it stopped. “I'm heading back.”

“There's not really a Portland to head back to,” Barton replied.

(Coulson felt the words more than he heard them, and he stared at the destruction on the screen in front of him, and he _needed to be down there._ )

“Copy that, Iron Man,” he said instead, ignoring the urge to tap his foot anxiously. “Engage the subject cautiously. It's in a frenzy.”

“I'm good with frenzies,” Stark answered. “I'm the cause of many. Location?”

“Follow the fire,” Barton muttered, but the coordinates followed so Coulson remained silent.

 

\-----

 

After ten minutes, the creature was taken down and detained. Stark's invention proved, of course, to be the deciding factor in the fight. When the Avengers were finally herded back onto the Hellicarrier, they were bruised and ugly (but they were alive).

“What the hell was that?” Fury demanded. Stark was out of the suit but not into new clothes. He was still wearing the soot-covered, sweat-stained outfit that he'd been wearing in the suit. As a result, he looked a little less business-man, and a lot less put together. Even his signature smirk seemed less potent without an expensive suit to back it up.

“Me winning the fight for you guys,” he replied, and he looked almost bored. The rest of the Avengers sat around the table, watching the fight with resigned weariness. Everyone was exhausted, but Fury needed to chew out Stark before they got the rest they needed. It was practically an after-battle tradition at this point.

“You left your team to drop a civilian past the point even other evacuees were at.” Fury hissed, and Stark straightened his shoulders. It reminded Coulson of a bird shuffling its feathers around to look larger and more threatening.

(But he didn't care about birds, or Fury's intimidation play, because his cell phone still wasn't vibrating)

“I figured they could handle themselves.”

“After you provoked him.”

“It was an attack. That worked.” Fury still wasn't impressed.

“The second time.”

“Was I supposed to leave her there?” Stark demanded, sitting straighter. The way he was sitting was the way he always sat before he bolted. Fury recognized the tell, and pulled back slightly. An absent Stark wouldn't offer the same answers a slightly-riled one could.

“In a situation wherein at least five other lives are in danger? Yes.” The eye was narrow (appraising). “You are.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Stark grunted, and it was as much of a victory as Fury was going to get, and he knew it.

“Dismissed.” The Avengers dispersed. Stark, of course, was the first to dart through the door, pulling his jacket on as he fled. Coulson followed Fury into the hallway, awaiting his own orders.

(Even if he wanted to ignore them and run to Portland)

“Even Stark should have known that was a bad call.” Fury grunted as he swept into his office. Coulson followed, closing the door behind him.

“We both know he can let his emotions influence his decision making.” Coulson answered reasonably. Fury snorted slightly in agreement as he sat behind his desk. He was exhausted, too, and it showed in this moment of privacy.

“Even if she were his type, I don't think he'd fly her twenty miles.”

“I don't think he's ended his relationship with Ms. Potts yet anyway,” Coulson added, taking the liberty to sit. Fury conceded to this point with a curt nod.

“Figure it out, Phil. I want to know who she is, and whether it was impulse or actual thought that made the decision. I don't want something like this happening again. It won't turn out so pretty.” Coulson didn't really think the additional damage of five city blocks was very pretty, but he also knew that all of his people were still alive.

“I'll look into it.” Fury acknowledged the promise with another tired nod. Before he could say anything, however, the sound of a phone vibrating against a suit pocket filled the room.

Coulson ripped the phone from his pocket, brushing past the initial screen impatiently.

“Problem?”

And then, there, from some unknown number,

_I saw it! The thing that got Portland! And freaking IRON MAN saved me!!! Call me!!_

“Problem?” Fury repeated, expression a mixture of curiosity and concern. Coulson stared at the phone, glanced up at his employer, and stood.

“I've got to make a call.”


	3. Chapter 3

Coulson had had all of a week with her after the Vancouver Incident, before Fury ordered him back to finish all of the reports and to give what information he could about the creature. As guessed, the man was a mutant with extremely volatile powers. Fury was dealing with that,

(The details of _that_ were above even Coulson's clearance level.)

but he maintained that Coulson wasn't allowed a vacation.

“Wasn't your last holiday long enough?” He'd groused as they worked. Coulson merely smirked.

“I think I still have saved-up days, sir.”

Fury wasn't entirely surprised by the revelation of who the civilian was, and neither man mentioned it to Stark. If he hadn't given the information, then it was probably best to pretend they didn't know. Stark liked his privacy, enjoyed thinking he had secrets, and SHIELD did its best to humor him (when it wasn't dangerous).

When the case was finally locked away and marked 'closed', Coulson thought he would have some free time. Though he was always welcome at Stark tower, Potts had stressed that he didn't _have_ to stay there.

“I know Tony can be a handful,” she'd assured him with a pleasant smile. “And sometimes people need a break.” He didn't mention that handling Stark hadn't really been much of a problem lately. Even his most annoying comments couldn't quite tarnish the things Coulson knew he'd done (knew he'd hidden).

“And when is your vacation?” He'd joked. Her smile had grown brighter, a little stronger and a little less for him.

“Not coming soon enough,” she'd answered, before bustling off with the papers for Stark to sign. Coulson had known for a while that she and Stark were involved, but it had been that conversation that assured him that it was a serious something. For her, at least. Because her reply had been insincere and joking and completely at odds with her expression.

She was, undeniably, in love with him.

Three weeks after the Vancouver Incident, he found out that the feeling was requited.

 

* * *

 

 

His phone vibrated against his chest as he placed his penultimate shirt into the suitcase.

(He almost didn't answer it.)

“Coulson.”

“Get here immediately.” Fury's tone was more serious than it had been two weeks before when he'd chastised Stark. The agent tossed his folded shirt onto the top of the bag, already stalking to the door.

“Situation?”

“Classified. Only you're required, Agent Coulson. If anyone asks, it's SHIELD business.”

“Understood,” Coulson replied, and Fury hung up.

There was a car waiting for him when he reached the lobby, and he texted her as it sped towards the aircraft that would bring him to the helicarrier.

 _Duty calls_ , he wrote. _Don't wait up._

 _This job must be important if you're ignoring me. Again. For the billionth time._ A second later, _I made cookies._

 _And I'm sure they're delicious,_ he answered with a smile. _I'll bring some when I come._

_Which will be?_

_Soon,_ he promised.

 _Not soon enough,_ she complained, and he felt (again) the pang of wishing he could tell her what he did. She already knew it was classified government work (the 'auditor' cover was ruined after the fifth time he'd inadvertently stood her up). It was a flimsy cover anyway, really, as taxes had never been his strong suit.

And, also, he'd come back to life.

_No arguments here. Love you._

_Ditto._

He leapt out of the car as the helicopter neared the ground, and boarded as it hovered a few feet in the air.

 

\-----

 

When he entered Fury's office, he felt his stomach turn slightly. The director looked exhausted and angry, a lethal combination that he wore only in the most dire of straits.

“Coulson,” he greeted, before handing over documents. Hardcopy.

It concerned Stark, then.

“What is it?” Coulson asked as he took them. It instantly became clear, however, as his eyes worked through the blurry image.

“Ms. Potts went to Lyon two nights ago for a week-long business trip regarding a new SI contract. Last seen entering an elevator in the lobby of her hotel Friday evening at approximately 2100 hours. According to cameras, however, she never left it. These pictures were intercepted by an agent just outside of Bergheim.” He tapped his head down at the image.

Coulson inspected it distantly, noting the bruises, abrasions and frayed hair detachedly. He focused instead on the scenery behind her, on the hand that held the gun to her temple- to the details that _mattered_.

“Has a demand for ransom been made?”

“It's assumed that she was kidnapped to get at Stark or Stark Industries.” Fury said unnecessarily. “They did far too clean a job for it to be for anything else. But nothing has been sent. We've been monitoring all of his mail closely, online and off. But Stark doesn't know she's been taken, and I intend to keep it that way for as long as I can.” Coulson raised a questioning eyebrow, and Fury turned slightly, clasping his hands together behind his back. “He won't respond appropriately, Phil. You know that. It's best we handle this efficiently and discreetly before he reacts on impulse.”

“You think it could be a trap?” Coulson inferred. Fury glanced over his shoulder.

“It's a possibility.” Coulson nodded slightly, turning his attention back to the papers. There were several pictures, but they'd been taken in quick succession- there wasn't much movement or change, nothing that justified the multiples.

(Potts was clearly in pain.)

“Do we have any other information?” Fury nodded at the packet.

“What's in there is what we've got. It's not much, but I'm sending you to collaborate with my team over there. You know Potts better than any other agent, and if there were any discrepancies in her behavior, you'll know.”

“What about the other Avengers?”

“Similarly afflicted with bias,” Fury responded unhappily. “Keep them in the dark unless it's required.”

“You think they'd tell him?” Fury's frown was deep as he turned.

“I think they'd feel obligated to.”

“And me?” Coulson asked before he could stop himself. Fury didn't need him to elaborate.

“I think you know what's best for Stark, and I think you feel you have a debt to pay. Your plane is waiting, Agent Coulson. Catch up on the way.” Coulson glanced at the papers, then stood.

“Yes, sir.”

 

\-----

 

The ride might have taken six hours on a commercial flight, but it would only take three on the plane he was currently in. Even so, it felt far too lengthy. It took him little more than twenty minutes to read the complete file (which included a brief summary of who Potts was and how she was related to the Avengers Initiative; Coulson read it more out of the desire to know everything available than necessity), and the rest of the flight was spent in well-hidden anxiety.

His first stop was the hotel, where he spent an hour brushing up on his French as he interrogated the manager.

The security footage had been tampered with, but the guard on duty didn't report even the smallest static or glitch. A clean switch, then, or a bribed employee. After speaking with the guard for five minutes, Coulson wrote off the latter.

They were professionals.

But why no ransom demands, then?

 _Catching a flight today?_ He glanced to the right as the glow of his phone filled his modest hotel room. He was still awake, poring over what he'd learned.

 _I'm already in tomorrow,_ he confided, noting that it was almost four in the morning.

_Where are you? Or is it classified?_

_I'd have to kill you,_ he agreed tiredly, as he rubbed at his eyes. Deciding that re-reading the same interviews for the fifth time wouldn't help him, he put all the papers into his briefcase and clambered into bed. They communicated for a bit longer, until he inadvertently ignored her last text by falling asleep.

 

\-----

 

“I see her.” He glanced to his right, breathing in the scent of his coffee tiredly. A young girl stood beside the cafe table, eying the picture with open curiosity. She blinked up at him, and he placed the mug down.

“Excuse me?”

“I see her,” she repeated. “A few days ago, I see her.” She tapped her finger against the paper. “Is she hurting?” He turned towards her, absorbing her features even as he spoke.

“Where did you see her? When was this?”

“I see her a few days ago,” she insisted. “I visit my grandparents, and I see her at the tracks when I come.” Coulson frowned towards where the train station was a few blocks over. The picture had been intercepted near here.

“Was she with anyone?” The girl nodded vigorously.

“Yes. Big men.” He stood. If Potts had been on the train, the group couldn't have erased all of the security footage. And even if she had been disguised, he now had a (semi-reliable) witness to describe her captors.

 

\-----

 

“Status?” Coulson shifted to keep the conversation private.

“Several witnesses saw five men escorting Potts onto a train in Salzburg. I've got security footage to back it up, and we've got their destination. They arrived in Bavaria yesterday, and we've got video confirmation of that.”

“Transportation?”

“Already acquired. My flight is leaving in ten minutes. I should arrive shortly thereafter. Stark?”

“No ransom demands yet. He still believes Potts is having business meetings, and according to Romanov is in his lab. It's unlikely he'll come out for a few more days unless there's an Avengers emergency.”

“Good timing for one of his inventing jags,” Coulson commented, glancing at the clock as he moved his phone to the other ear.

“Implying?”

“If they're as competent as we think, there wouldn't be a record of a ransom demand.” It was a thought that had been bothering Coulson since he'd arrived. But Stark wouldn't keep something like this silent, would he?

“At this point, we can't assume that.” Coulson blinked.

“You've considered this?”

“The picture my agent found was sent anonymously.” The implications of that were clear. Why would kidnappers without an interest in ransom money let images like that surface?

“Stark would find a more effective way of getting the information across,” he denied (Stark would have found a way, were it Potts in danger).

“Hypothetically, it can be assumed Stark was told not to inform any agencies. Hypothetically, anonymously sending those pictures was all he could do.” Coulson worried his lip until he noticed what he was doing. He quickly stopped, then nodded.

“My flight, sir.”

“Of course. Keep me apprised.”

 

\-----

 

Bavaria was chilly, but Coulson simply drew his suit jacket a little tighter.

Stark was either aware of the situation and counting on him, or he was oblivious and would be very angry once it was brought to light. Either way, Potts was the priority.

The security footage from the train station was blurry but conclusive: five men and one (heavily dressed) woman. So far he had been dependent upon dumb luck, and he disliked being so uncomfortably out-of-control.

(It reminded him of grueling workouts, and his chest was hurting in the snow)

He asked everyone he saw whether they recognized the figure in the photo he was brandishing. A bald Caucasian male with thin lips and a squat nose. It had been pulled from the footage, and while it was a little fuzzy, it was the best image he had. They were still running it through facial recognition systems, but Coulson privately doubted that any new information it would surface would be valuable to his search.

The shopkeeper shook her head, staring at the image.

“E _s_ tut mir leid,” she murmured, handing it back. Coulson smiled, tight lipped.

“Danke schön.” He had just left the convenience store when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out, expecting it to be her.

 _Why're you in Germany? You're gonna miss the tree, Agent._ Coulson stopped where he stood, glancing over his shoulder. A ridiculous thought- that Stark might be in the alleyway, skulking- but it was his first inclination.

Though, what was a secret agent without a healthy dose of paranoia?

_How did you get this number?_

_It's an SI smartphone. You shouldn't click 'I Agree' without reading. So, Germany?_ Then again, paranoia was necessary when one was acquainted with Tony Stark.

 _SHIELD business. What tree?_ He resumed walking, wondering whether he should purchase another phone. For situations such as these, progress was best aided by privacy.

_Rockefeller center- don't tell me you're willing to miss it. One of my exes is lighting everything up. You remember Ms. December from a few years back?_

_As I recall, you knew several Ms. Decembers._ It was safe ground, and the subject was indicative of Stark still not knowing of Potts' kidnapping. Coulson wasn't sure whether he were relieved.

_It's the one with the bustiest bust. And what does 'SHIELD business' mean? It's so ominous._

_Have you considered channeling your 'SHIELD business' interest into SHIELD meetings?_

_It's been considered, but the idea was ultimately scrapped. What's in Germany? Hitler clone? Should I call Cap?_ Coulson paused as a car rolled in front of him. His eyes narrowed on the small red light blinking near the streetlight. Cameras. He wondered how much of the roads they covered.

 _I've dealt with the Hitler clone. You and Captain Rogers can stand down._ Taking out his SHIELD phone, Coulson searched for the location wherein the camera's recordings were saved.

A few blocks south.

He tightened his suit jacket again, resisted a shiver, and waited for the stoplight to turn green.

_You know, you can call him Steve. I think you're only supposed to respect your elders if they have the wrinkles to prove their age._

_Or you could respect everyone indiscriminately._ He trotted across the snow, breathing through his nose.

_Too tough. So remind me why an Avengers Initiative agent is out in Germany on 'SHIELD business'?_

_Classified._

_No such thing, technically. If I weren't such a respectful thing, I would've already broken into your servers to check for myself. Proud of me?_

_Fury spotted your fingerprints on my file a few hours ago._

_I don't leave fingerprints,_ Stark denied.

_The lack of anything is a signature in itself. Unless there's another programmer stalking me._

_Considering how you seem to be cheating on us with extracurricular spy activities, it's not impossible._ Coulson didn't reply as he entered the building. The conditioned warmth swam over him, and he let his limbs relax slightly.

“Guten Tag,” he greeted, already removing his badge. SHIELD being an international agency, it only took a swipe for complete clearance almost anywhere. “Ihre Videoüberwachung.“ The man behind the desk consulted a manager (who, in turn, called a superior). After a few confused minutes, Coulson had won approval to see everything that he wanted to in the building.

Y _ou know, that there isn't anything in your file about your 'SHIELD business' is kinda like that signature thing._ Coulson didn't bother replying. It would only encourage the engineer. He wrote Fury to handle it, then settled in for long hours of searching.

_If it concerns the Avengers, we deserve to know._

_Not everything concerns you,_ Coulson finally answered, deciding that complete radio silence might encourage him anyway. _There are other hackers out there. For more sensitive situations, we always use hardcopy._

 _And this is one of those situations?_ Coulson tapped his finger against the mouse, zooming in on the recorded sidewalk. He knew that nose. It was only the one male, heading west. He tapped a few more keys, following the man with various cameras throughout the city. They weren't at every corner, of course, so it sometimes took a few tries to find the street he turned on.

When he lost visuals completely, it was obvious the man had entered one of the buildings between the cameras. A three block radius.

He had doors to knock on, then.

He called in the information, sending the location to Fury.

“Back-up is on the way,” the director promised. “Set up a perimeter.” Within an hour, four snipers were perched and Coulson had a team dispersed throughout the area. They waited in carefully chosen spots, disguised casually so as to appear congruous with the environment.

_Pep is in Europe. Just say it's unrelated, and I won't show up with Belgian coffee._

_Don't come._ Coulson retorted, somehow unable to completely lie. Stark had been texting for hours, despite that the agent had been diligently ignoring him. This was the first time he'd mentioned Potts, and Coulson wondered whether that had been the main issue all along. _It's under control._

 _I hope you like it black, because I don't think I'll have time for milk and sugar._ Coulson cursed under his breath, then spoke into the communicator.

“We've got a deadline, sir. Stark is on his way.”

“Fuck,” was the eloquent reply. “I want them now. We finally got a check on your man- Grigore Dobra. He's a big player in a south Romanian gang, and he'd give us vital intel on a weapon trafficking ring we've been trying to pin down since Stane went under. If Stark gets him before we do, I can guarantee we won't be learning much.”

“Yes, sir.” Coulson agreed, whipping out his gun as he approached the first door that had been obscured in the footage.

If it had taken him three hours to reach France, it would take Stark little more than two to reach Germany.

(The man always had kept the best toys to himself.)

 


	4. Chapter 4

When Coulson woke up that morning, he'd spoken to her.

_Still in tomorrow?_

_I'll be in today soon._

Ten hours later, pounding his fist against an apartment door, Coulson wondered whether he'd keep his promise.

“I've got visual of Dobra, sir,” one of the snipers hissed in his ear, and Coulson nodded a little to himself. It was this building, definitely, and it had only been an hour since he'd spoken to Stark. Enough time, if the kidnappers were smart enough to give themselves up rather than face the combined wrath of SHIELD and Iron Man.

“Don't take a shot unless necessary.”

“What's the main priority?” He demanded, and Coulson knocked again to avoid answering.

Dobra was the priority- a major weapons importer, a high-profile member of a gang that sold stolen tech on the streets. Hardcore and dangerous weapons that would take more lives than one person was worth.

(Except it was Virginia Potts on the line, it was Pepper, and even if he didn't owe Stark, he'd have a hard time giving the order to sign away her life.)

“Potts,” he finally grunted out. “Keep her alive by any means necessary.”

“Understood, sir,” the other man replied, not commenting on the pause.

“Drop the weapons, let go of Potts, and step towards the window with your hands up!” Coulson shouted at the door. He heard muffled foreign cursing behind the wood.

“Who are you?” A deep baritone demanded, and Coulson straightened. Officially a negotiation.

(He'd gotten started with negotiations, with convincing- hell, he wouldn't be in this position if he weren't so good at his job.)

“You know who I am,” he answered confidently (but not overly so). “You've been peeking out your windows looking for me all afternoon.” It was true. They'd skipped a few buildings after a sniper had seen consistent movement at one window.

Professionals, sure. But they were sloppy when cornered.

“You are not Stark-” The voice retorted. It was close enough to the door that Coulson could theoretically discharge his firearm and break through. But while that would disable one, there were four other men. And even if there were fewer, they couldn't risk such a hostile maneuver with a hostage.

“I'm the next best thing,” Coulson promised. “And I've got a team of highly-trained agents ready to take you down faster than even he could.”

“We are not to go quietly!” The man shouted. His accent was difficult to place. Ukrainian, probably.

“We don't mind noise.” He heard movement, and then, voice shaking but not breaking,

“Phil?”

“Ms. Potts,” Coulson replied. He didn't imagine that he'd feel so relived at her voice. He'd never considered for even a moment that she was dead (they weren't dumb), but it was still a relief to know that she was relatively safe.

Past the familiar adrenaline that was rushing his blood through his veins, Coulson felt a small part of his worry decrease.

“How are you?” He asked, putting an effort in so as not to be too soft. If he sounded overly concerned, they might think they had a larger bargaining chip than they should.

“I'm okay,” she replied. “You?” He couldn't deny the smile.

“I'm okay, too. Have these men said what they want from you?” He heard mutters and whispers, and, then,

“They want you to go away.”

“I'm afraid I can't do that.”

“They say they'll kill me if you don't.”

“Well, I'd like them to know we have snipers ready to kill them if they so much as try.” More mutters, then,

“They want Mr. Stark.” He wondered whether she were pretending to be less close to Stark than she was- it was the smart move, and she wasn't dumb.

“Any particular reason?”

“No business of yours,” that other voice grunted, and Coulson's grip tightened on his gun.

“Since Mr. Stark isn't here, I might be able to help.”

“You help not. We want Stark here.”

“Mr. Stark doesn't live in Bavaria, Mr. Dobra.”

“We left him message at SHIELD.” Then Dobra _was_ the ambassador for the group. Coulson preferred knowing who he was speaking to.

“The picture,” Coulson surmised. “That was supposed to mean something to him?”

Так,” he growled. “The gun is by his make- from Bavarian factory.” Coulson paused. Stark had factories around the world. There _had_ been a Stark Industries factory in Bavaria, years before, before SI had shut its doors on weapons manufacturing.

“Well, he's not here,” he replied.

“Then we kill his woman!”

“No,” Coulson interjected plaintatively. “What is it you wanted from Mr. Stark? I'm one of the top agents of SHIELD. I garaunteee I can get what he can offer.” A lie, obviously, as money spoke more than one's menial position in a secret organization.

A pause.

(Half of him was waiting for a rebellious bullet.)

“The Jericho. We need several.”

“A lot of firepower, there,” Coulson observed, tapping a message into his secondary communicator. If he could get them talking, the rest of the team could get into a position to break in with a less obtrusive style if it became necessary.

(Potts was the priority. That had been established.)

“You got a big buyer lined up?”

“No business of yours,” he retorted, and he sounded almost smug. “You can get?”

“Of course I can get. A discontinued Stark weapon? We both know they're not so difficult to ascertain through certain avenues.” He paused meaningfully, then continued. “But I need assurance that Potts will not be harmed.”

“She no harm. Get me the bomb.” Coulson resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Assurance meaning trust, Mr. Dobra. Insurance. Considering your reputation, you can't fault me for being skeptical.”

“You think I get bomb and kill her,” Dobra noted, and Coulson made a small sound of affirmation. “Well, I give her, I think you kill me. So not such a good plan, tак?”

“Sounds like you boys are having real trust issues.”

(Coulson inwardly groaned.)

“Who is that?” Dobra demanded, and Coulson denied it. He even shook his head, though no one could see.

“No one.”

“It's me, Grigore,” Stark answered cheerfully, and Coulson glared out the stairwell window at the hovering billionaire. He could see nothing but his boots, so he aimed his scowl at them. “I hear you're my number one fan. Should I sign the Jericho or your chest?”

“Stark?” Dobra asked, sounding unsure and slightly confused.

“See? You got it. Now let's have it, what's on your Christmas list?”

“Tony?” Potts demanded, and she sounded as annoyed as Coulson felt. And utterly relieved, but that wasn't a feeling Coulson shared.

“Ah, Ms. Potts. Aren't you supposed to be at a board meeting?”

“You want her safe?” Dobra demanded, and Stark's snort was oddly distorted through the speakers.

“Yes, my man, I do. What's the damage?”

“Out of suit.” Dobra instructed.

Coulson fully expected a flippant response, maybe an insult, and then a, ' _No, seriously_ '.

“I want her with Coulson first. He's the sharply-dressed missionary at your door.”

“How we know you won't kill us when she is gone?”

“What, my reputation for honor isn't enough?”

“What's going on in there?” Fury demanded in Coulson's ear as Stark and Dobra spoke.

“Stark got here.” Coulson replied unncessarily. The door opened, suddenly, and Dobra stood there (looking annoyingly happy). He gestured for Coulson to enter, and, as Potts came into view, Coulson did so. Stark might be unpredictable, but he had snipers if the engineer was as irrational as he seemed at the moment. “Have we reached a solution?” He asked sourly as he caught sight of Stark.

“Oh, like your plan was working. They have guys around back. They'd've caught your team moving in, and Dobra wasn't gonna hand Pep over before you gave him the Jericho and an escape route.” Coulson resisted rolling his eyes (or vocally expressing his anger). He settled for,

“I'm a professional, Mr. Stark. I hope you understand that you're breaking proticol and making things difficult.” Stark seemed to think they were infants running around in track suits. He remembered why Fury had kept the billionaire in the dark- _“He won't respond appropriately, Phil. You know that. It's best we handle this efficiently and discreetly before he reacts on impulse”_ \- and felt a small degree of confusion. Stark had proven- on multiple occasions- that he could work under pressure. The arc reactor was proof of that, the creation of a new element was proof of that, the Chitari incident was proof of that. Friends had been in danger before. Why was this so different?

(This was before Coulson figured it out.)

“Well, that's basically why I was born. Can you escort Pep out now?” Coulson glanced at Dobra, who was still gleeful. Stark was removing his armor.

(Slowly.)

“I'm not leaving you here, Stark.”

“Uh, Dobra?” Dobra took the hint, and Potts let out a bit of a gasp as she was flung at Coulson. The Agent resisted the desired scowl, but Stark was (technically) a superhero. He could handle himself (hopefully). Potts was a civilian.

As he began to move towards the door, she tensed and practically clawed at his shoulder.

“We are _not_ leaving.”

“Pep.” Stark spoke before Coulson could even open his mouth. “Go. Trust me.” She frowned at him, her brows furrowing. “You're slowing me down,” he added, gesturing at his suit. He'd only removed the boot. She nodded slightly, then pulled towards the door.

Coulson followed, wondering why Dobra trusted Stark to get out of the suit. It was obvious what he intended.

When he and Potts got to the street, he heard the tell-tale boom of Stark's betrayal.

But it only took seconds for the relief of that to be swallowed by an eerie silence, broken only by the normal city sounds.

“Sir!” Coulson turned to the man behind him. While he looked unimportant and normal, the small piece of plastic in his ear identified him as a SHIELD agent. “Communicators aren't functioning.”

Coulson turned to glare down the avenue. The streetlights which had only just turned on were conspiculously unlit, and even the stoplight at the end of the road was blank.

“EMP?” Pepper gasped even as Coulson came to the realization.

“Bring her to the rallying point. Find a way to contact Fury, and tell him to keep the Hellicarrier and any aeiral vehicles away. Tell him they probably have some sort of small-range EMP device, and that Stark is down.” As he spoke, he guided Potts towards the Agent and then stalked towards the stoop of the building.

“Rallying-? I'm not going anywhere!” Pepper denied, her face red. Coulson focused on her eyes, ignoring the bruises and cuts and blood.

“Stark did that to keep you safe, and I won't be responsible for any more injuries you sustain. Harrison-” Here he addressed the agent. “-sedate her if you have to.” Hurt, betrayal, and concern warred on her face.

“You can't go in alone.”

“I have snipers,” he answered pleasantly, his back already turned. He entered the building quietly, and he could hear the conversation upstairs.

“You think we were not prepared?” Dobra was gloating. Typical.

“You realize there are, like, twenty snipers ready to put you down?” Stark was being abrasive. Typical. “You're not just gonna walk out of this.”

“You give us a 'get out of jail free card', Mr. Stark.” The other man denied, and it was clear the phrase amused him. “We have helicopter come, and they will not shoot it down if you are on board, tак?”

“You're overestimating how much these people like me. I can garauntee that Coulson would personally shoot it down even if it were _just_ me in there.” Coulson smirked at the joke even as he snapped the neck of one of the men that were watching the stairwell. The EMP would have killed any communicators they had, too, so he didn't have to worry about their attempting to contact anyone.

It made his job easier.

(He wasn't just good at negotiating.)

“We just wait- away from window, недотепа!- and then you work for me. Sounds good, tак?”

“Just as a heads-up, my salary is a little high.” Stark returned, but Coulson could hear the strain. Certainly this wasn't an ideal situation, considering his past convergance with terrorism and the 'employment'' that came along with it. Or maybe he was settling from whatever fervor had encouraged his irrational actions, and had finally figured out that interrupting Coulson's operation had been a bad choice.

Coulson decided as he snapped another neck that it was probably a mix of both.

Brandishing his gun, he paused outside the door.

Judging from where Stark's voice was, he was on the floor. When he'd left, his right foot had been bootless. His voice was unaltered, now, and unobstructed, so the helmet was gone, too. The rest of his body, however, was most likely completely armored.

Good odds.

So Coulson did what he couldn't before. He focused on the voice closest to the door, and discharged.

The door splintered at the bullet's entrance, and Coulson used the crack to buttress his kick. The door went down easily (he'd knocked down stronger ones), and he was given a complete second to asses the situation.

Stark was on the ground (as guessed) and (as guessed) was still mostly armored. They'd seen no reason to remove the suit as it anchored him and presented no danger. A point of luck in his favor, then. His shot had reached its destination, but in a nonfatal area. It seemed to have lodged itself somewhere in the man's arm. He must have been left-handed, because his gun was on the ground.

Another lucky break.

Coulson swept him into a choke-hold and shot two of the other men dead while using him as a shield. One bullet swam through his shield's shoulder and grazed Coulson's, but he merely gritted his teeth slightly and worked past it.

He'd worked past a spear through the heart; he could handle a graze.

The man sagged, and became (in the most literal sense) deadweight. Coulson discarded him as he ducked into the bathroom, thankful that the walls were thick enough to stop the bullets that chased after him. He ran the water to disguise what small sounds he made, then breathed calmly.

The doctor still advised him to take things slow.

“Come here!” Dobra shouted. “Show yourself! I will kill Stark!” Coulson didn't move. Stark was smart enough _not_ to make a smart comment, and the apartment was silent save for the sound of running water. “Come here!” Dobra practically screamed, and a loud blast filled the room (and Coulson's ears).

“Holy _shit_!” Stark ground out, and Coulson felt himself relax involuntarily.

(He wasn't dead, of course not; he was too important to kill.)

“I _use_ that leg,” he continued. “-almost every day.”

“Shut up.” Dobra commanded, and Coulson glanced into the mirror on the wall. He could see Dobra's feet and part of Stark's body. Blood. Stark had been shot in the calf, then. Worst case scenario, the bullet hit the fibular artery.

He'd work under that assumption (best to be pessimestic in these situations), but he doubted Dobra was stupid enough to fatally injure the man he'd been working to kidnap.

He said as much.

“I will kill him if I have to,” Dobra assured him, and Stark's laugh was a bit rusty.

“It'll be harder to redeem your 'get out of jail free card' if you do.”

“Come out,” Dobra continued, ignoring the engineer. “You kill my men, you die by me.” Coulson peered once more into the mirror. The other men in the room were dead, and Fury wanted Dobra alive. Stark was, of course, the main priority. Coulson removed his second gun, and took the cartridge from his first (the sound masked by the sink's determined work). He shoved the empty weapon across the hardwood, watching it in the mirror as it hit Stark's left boot.

“I'm coming out,” he said calmly. “-and I'm unarmed.”

“Jesus Christ, Coulson-!” Stark grunted, and he jerked his head up in some fevered motion. “Stay in there!”

“My job is to keep you safe, Stark. If Dobra is planning on shooting you because I'm holed up in here, it's my job to give myself up.” He gave his voice a slight tremble to really sell the ' _It's my duty and I have no other choice_ ' factor. Dobra seemed smart enough to pick up on tells like that.

“He's not gonna kill me-!” Stark replied furiously, and he tried moving again. The suit proved an effective obstacle. “Just wait for fucking back-up!”

Coulson pressed his back against the wall.

“No can do, Mr. Stark.”

“Okay.” Dobra finally said. “You come out, he lives. Hands high, tак? Let me see them.”

“Yes.” Coulson agreed, pushing himself up. He promptly dropped back down (heavily) and hissed out in obvious (too obvious) pain.

“Were you shot?” Stark demanded, unwittingly playing his part.

“I'm fine,” Coulson denied, and he let his already hard breathing grow rougher.

“Not so much for me to do,” Dobra lamented. “Maybe I should just let you bleed, let you die hidden like coward.”

“Fuck you.” Stark hissed, before Coulson could say his line. “Just leave him the fuck alone. He needs paramedics. I won't build you a goddamn thing if he dies.”

“You are thinking you have more choice than you do,” Dobra replied with a chuckle. Stark's threat seemed to have spurred him on, however. Coulson couldn't help but be happy Stark wasn't a professional manipulator (that is, to the extent of Natasha; she would have had Dobra take her and leave him easily). “Do not be worried, Mr. _Coulson_ ,” Dobra continued, and the slivers of feet he could see in the mirror shifted. “I will make house call.”

Coulson watched the mirror carefully. The moment Dobra was close enough, he turned his body around the corner and shot. In his seated position, he was lower than the man had expected. The first shot disarmed him. The second immobilized him.

The third was, admittedly, borne of emotional bias.

All three avoided arteries.

Coulson stood, stepped gingerly over the body, and picked up the gun that laid a few inches from the arm dealer's head. While he was down there, he slammed the man's head against the hardwood.

Dobra mumbled something incoherent. It sounded vaguely like a Ukranian insult that had been levied upon him in an interrogation once.

Having heard it before, he wasn't impressed.

He scanned the room, noting that the others were definitely either deceased or close enough. He squatted beside the engineer, eying the wound.

It was in all likelihood quite painful, but it didn't seem to have hurt anything too important. Minor muscle damage, no fracture, not even a grazed artery, probably.

“I see you've healed miraculously again.” Stark observed, and Coulson smirked in his direction. He was pale, sweaty, and there was a bit of blood above his brow. He'd sustained a hit. Probably after his helmet was first removed.

People didn't like being betrayed, even if they were expecting it.

“And I see you ignored my instructions. Again.” He shrugged as best as he could. The metal shoulder barely budged.

“It's what I do.” He licked his lips a little, and his eyes jumped to the door. “Pepper?”

“She's being looked over as we speak. She's fine.” Stark nodded slightly, then,

“How long have you known?”

“About a week. They sent a picture to SHIELD intending for it to get to you. I guess they thought you'd do something irrational if faced with the situation.” Coulson frowned pointedly down at the suit. “Glad you proved them wrong.”

“I get a little dumb with Pepper,” Stark revealed past a shaky smile. Stark never admitted to being dumb about anything, and that's when Coulson finally understood. It wasn't another dead-end relationship, or some weird experiment that would inevitably fail and blow up in her face. She wasn't the only one that was in love.

Stark had flown to Europe under the suspicion that she was in danger, had badgered Coulson before the suspicion had grown into even _that_ , and had given himself up without a thought when push came to shove. He'd acted irrationally because of emotional bias, and it wasn't bias borne out of some long-term friendship.

“I can see that,” he said, and his realization must have shown on his face, because Stark suddenly seemed a little uneasy.

“So, blood-loss? That's a bad thing, right?” Coulson took the hint and stood. He pulled the curtains back grandiosely, so as to avoid getting inadvertently shot. He then signaled that the hostiles were dealt with.

“They'll be up in a second.”

 

\-----

 

“Grigore Dobra is in custody, Potts and Stark are in Medical, and all other targeted hostiles have been incapacitated.” Coulson reported.

“Sounds like a real happy ending,” Fury commended dryly. “What's Stark's status?”

“Angry. He also has a slight concussion. Preliminary reports suggest limited and temporary damage to his calf. He should be good as new within a few months.” Fury made a small noise of acknowledgement. “And I think he and Potts are more serious than we thought.”

“It's been a bit a _day_ , Agent,” Fury began, but Coulson had had a bit of a day himself.

“It's nothing short of a real relationship, sir. I thought you'd be proud.” Fury harrumphed, but didn't argue again. Coulson rarely interrupted.

“Dobra?”

“Three gunshot wounds. He's in surgery now. Expected to come out with a limp.” Something like a chuckle, then,

“And Potts?”

“Minor injuries. She should be fine within a few weeks.”

“I got a report from one of your snipers,” Fury continued. “Says Potts was the 'priority' in the hostage situation. I'd like to hear your explanation.” Coulson tensed, and held the phone closer to his ear.

“Considering her importance to Stark, I knew her safety was more important than Dobra's. Had she died, Stark would have quit the Avengers Initiative, would likely have cut funding for SHIELD, and might have chosen to become a supervillain.” A small pause. “She's also in control of one of the largest companies in the world, sir. Considering the likelihood of Dobra's cooperation anytime soon, the decision to prioritize her safety was necessary. ”

“Noted. I see you wrote a script. I'm officially requesting the _actual_ explanation.” Coulson smirked against the receiver.

“I'm similarly afflicted with bias.”

That sound was definitely a chuckle.

 


	5. Epilogue

“Phil had it covered, Tony.” Coulson slowed as he overheard Potts. His mother would say that he was taking his work home with him- spying when it wasn't necessary. But his job _was_ 24/7 these days, and he had always been light on his feet.

“Agent was trying to reason with them, Pep. And they were crazy war profiteers that were dumb enough to try and kidnap _you_. There's not much sanity to bargain with.”

“He saved your life.”

“I had it covered. Completely.” A small pause. “I mean, I got you out of there, didn't I?”

“That really wasn't all that mattered. What was your plan for escaping when you couldn't even move an inch?”

“Before I answer that, exactly how much do you know?”

“Let's assume everything.”

“My plan was flawed.”

“Obviously.” Another pause. Coulson wondered whether he should leave, maybe seek coffee on another floor. His personal floor had an excellent espresso machine- he'd only chosen to seek out this one for the company that often came along with it (he and Clint had spent most mornings together over equally black brews ever since his resurrection).

But, then again, he hadn't become a spy because he respected boundaries.

“He didn't even tell me.”

“He's in an organization that applauds secrecy, Tony. Don't take it personally.”

“You could have _died_. They probably would've blamed it on a faulty plane engine, or something.”

“You wouldn't have bought it.”

“That's what's so insulting about it!” Stark exclaimed. Though it was a joke, there was an edge. Coulson remained still. “You'd think they'd notice my intellect by now.”

“You've practically got a billboard saying 'I'm Smart!', Tony. I promise, they know. They just have to do things a certain way.”

“I just-” Coulson strained his ears. “I just thought that he was operating differently. Less for SHIELD, more for people who aren't lying assholes.”

“You lie all the time.”

“I'm not an asshole.”

“Many women that still send me e-mails disagree.” Stark clicked his tongue.

“You should really change your address, Pep.”

“I _do_. You've just got a long list of Internet-savvy exes.”

“Oops, that was probably me. Foreplay used to be teaching basic internet usage. It was the nineties.”

“I know. Are you going to talk to him?”

“Agent? No. About what, even? Our mutual interests begin and end at Captain America, and I got out of that phase around eight.”

(Coulson stored that away, even if he knew it would likely never be helpful.)

“He saved our lives, Tony. I sent him a thank-you card-”

“Really.”

“-but I think you should talk to him. Maybe make a contingency plan in case something like this happens again, so that you won't fly off the handle.”

“I didn't fly off the handle. I flew in my beautiful Iron Man suit to save his ass from handing over fifteen Jericho missiles.”

“He wouldn't have done that.”

“You're right,” he agreed, suddenly angry. “-he would have let you die to have a good chat with Dobra.”

“Tony.”

“I know.” As quickly as the anger had come, it went away. Now he just sounded deflated. “I just don't like the fact that he and SHIELD saved you while I was working on some new update for a phone.”

“It's a very nice phone.” She replied smoothly. “And I'm going to appreciate the massive profits we'll get from it. It's not just you and me against the world, Tony- you've got back-up.”

“Rhodey was also not informed.”

“Phil is on your side. He recognized that you would have done something stupid, and ended up across the world looking after dead ends.” A pause. “I thought I was going to die there, for a second, and hearing his voice...it was good, Tony.” A longer pause, and Coulson knew without looking that they were holding each other.

(He wondered how he ever saw their relationship as anything less than legitimate.)

“But my voice was better, right?”

“I was furious.”

“And filled with joy?”

“But mainly furious.”

“I'll send him a fruit basket.”

“He likes oranges.”

 

* * *

 

The promised fruit basket never arrived, but Coulson did get a message from Jarvis to go to Stark's lab. It was nearly a week after the final reports on the Bavaria incident had been filed away, and Dobra had already made it past Coulson's clearance level.

“Any idea what he wants?” Coulson asked, putting down his coffee and frowning up at the ceiling. He had only begun doing that after Captain Rogers did so- the man didn't seem to understand that Jarvis was able to hear him no matter where he looked. Knowing that the soldier didn't need to feel any more alone, Coulson had picked up the habit.

“I'm afraid not, sir.” Clint waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Private party with Tony? I'm jealous.” Coulson shrugged.

“Your invitation must have gotten lost in the mail.” The archer swallowed the last of his tepid coffee as Coulson put his empty mug into the dishwasher.

“If you're not still busy frolicking with Tony, I'll be in the range at three.”

“I'll keep it in mind,” Coulson replied. Another one of their newly-found traditions. When Coulson wasn't in Portland, he generally spent most of his time with Barton (or paperwork).

The elevator dropped him to the reinforced level that housed most of Stark's works-in-progress. The man had been scarce since returning from the hospital, and had been avoiding Coulson like the plague. The few accidental collisions had ended with a swift departure.

Between that and the overheard conversation, Coulson was curious about what the engineer had to say.

“We have arrived, sir,” Jarvis said unnecessarily as the doors opened. Coulson walked down the hallway to the lab's entrance, raising an eyebrow as he watched Stark glance through the glass at him.

“Agent! I missed your sunny disposition. It's unlocked.” The door obligingly opened, and the heavy scent of oil and burnt hair hit Coulson's nose. His expression remained unfazed as he stepped inside.

“Jarvis said you needed me.” The man scrunched his nose.

“'Need' is an exaggeration. 'Slight want' is more accurate. To talk, I mean. To you.” He seemed as if he were about to say something else when his body twisted (almost of its own accord) back to his desk. “Check this out.”

“What is it?” Coulson asked before the device even came into view.

“Well, that depends on who you talk to,” he began. “I mean, if you ask me, it's a miniature- and I'm talking Polly Pocket- arc reactor that's powering a slightly larger- let's say Barbie- energy cartridge. I know you have a penchant- do people still say that?- for firing off weapons when you don't have a clue about what they'll do, so here.” He turned, thrusting the thing into Coulson's hands.

(He caught it without thinking; knowing Stark required thinking on one's feet.)

It was a gun. But more than that, it was a weapon, which Stark hadn't made for anything other than the Iron Man suit (and occasional upgrades on Avengers equipment) since 2008.

“Is this for the new suit?” Coulson found himself asking as he inspected it. Stark shrugged impatiently.

“Just shoot it. Jarvis, give us something pretty to aim at.” The AI followed the instructions, lowering a standard target against the south wall. Judging by the scorch marks, it was where Stark did most of his less heavy-duty firing.

Coulson (rolling with the punches as he'd been trained to) raised the gun and shot. It had a slight kick, and something like a tingle ran up his arm. Stark noticed, and said,

“I'm working on that. Unless you like it. Maybe you'll develop some weird Pavlov-y thrill out of it. I know you're a fan of electricity-”

“That wasn't a bullet?” Coulson interrupted, gesturing at the weapon. Stark took it from his hands, and promptly opened up the hatch on the side.

“Energy discharge. And since it's running on an original Stark Arc Reactor, you can bet it won't need reloading anytime soon.” Coulson raised an eyebrow.

“That's good,” he said, because Stark working on weapons _was_ good. Fury had begun to lose hope. “I'm sure SHIELD will-”

“Not SHIELD.” Stark cut in, keeping his head low as he snapped the hatch shut again. “Just you.” Coulson frowned as the weapon was handed back to him. It had a nice weight- Stark weapons had always found a nice balance between sturdy and lightweight.

“I'm not sure I understand, Mr. Stark.”

“Okay, so, I'd call it an energy discharger powered by an arc reactor. I'd call it a badass weapon that's easy to handle and easier to brag about. But, uh, Pepper would call it a thank-you.” Coulson's eyebrow rose again.

Ah. Here was the fruit basket.

“Mr. St-”

“Wait, lemme finish. I'm practicing good manners, and Pep is gonna hound you later to make sure I said everything just like she wrote on the note cards.” He was avoiding eye contact, focusing on menial tasks like shifting paper (and what was paper doing down here?) to the left and then back to the right.

Coulson didn't mention it, because Stark didn't like to think he was that easy to read.

“I know, now, that Pep and I have some back-up. Unassuming, boy scout-ish back-up, but good back-up nonetheless. Back in Germany, you kinda saved my ass.” He paused, tapping his head up. “I mean, I would've figured something out, I'm not dumb, but-”

“My job is to protect you and yours.” Coulson said, deciding he didn't want to hear some wayward rant. “You don't need to bribe me for that.”

“It's not a bribe,” he insisted, hands fumbling for something to work on. A nervous tell that Coulson had never noticed before- probably something unique to emotionally revealing conversations. He wondered whether they'd shaken and twisted so badly when he and Potts had first become serious. “It's a thank-you. And it's also an investment in the future.” His eyes flew to Coulson's, and they were steady. “That won't run out. Not unless you plan on doing a lot more shooting than you really should, or if someone at SHIELD decides they want to reverse engineer it. Fair warning: it'll burn out immediately- and explosively- if anyone prods at it in a way consistent to that. If it gets broken, give it to me. If it runs out of juice- once again, unlikely-, give it to me. It might be easier if you just don't tell Nick-y. Consider it a super secret BFF gift.”

A pause, during which Coulson mentally rejected the idea of keeping the weapon a secret from Fury.

“It's reliable, basically, and that means, no matter what, you have a fighting chance. That means, if Pep is in danger, you'll never run out. That even if she gets hurt, you can kill everyone else in the room.” He frowned, eyes focusing just above Coulson's. He was faking eye contact. “You did okay with that last time, and I wanted to thank you for not- I wanted to thank you for keeping her alive. For keeping her safe.”

Coulson smiled.

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Stark.” He observed the gun in his hand, then nodded slightly. “And I could thank you for doing the same.”

“Huh?” He sounded genuinely puzzled, so Coulson glanced back up at him.

“Saving Ms. Potts was...a good start. We're not exactly squared, but I intend to repay you for what you've done since I died.” His eyes widened slightly at the corners, the only sign that he was surprised.

“A good start,” he repeated after a moment. “Okay, sure. Keep her safe, and we're square.”

(Coulson kept to himself that he wouldn't just be watching after Potts.)

“Thanks for the gun, Mr. Stark.”

“Please,” the engineer replied past a laugh and a friendly clasp on the shoulder. “Call me Tony.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for everyone that made it this far, and hopefully you all will write some stores about Coulson and Tony now? Please? 
> 
> Oh, well. Thanks for reading and happy 2013!


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